


when you are a hurricane

by aiIenzo



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Character Study, Cockles Big Bang 2016, Developing Relationship, M/M, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiIenzo/pseuds/aiIenzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study into the multiple facets of personality, the tumultuous nature of emotional upheaval, and how self-depreciation leads to the constructed flaws of undeserved love. Or, alternatively, the one where Jensen learns to accept all the eccentricities of Misha (at a much slower rate than everyone else).</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you are a hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the Cockles Big Bang 2016, and it's my first piece in the fandom, so this was an absolute joy to stumble through. A HUGE thanks needs to go out to stephmendes over on tumblr for her incredible art. Seriously, it's amazing, so please go check her out and leave some love for all the time and effort she put into this. I was nearly last to be chosen during the claiming process, and she picked me up in addition to her first choice, doubling the effort she had to do! Thank you SO much, Steph! Your art is absolutely stunning. 
> 
> Also, a quick thank you to my husband, who listened to me rant about this fic at all hours of the day, and was my useless, slightly bewildered, yet entirely supportive beta. You're my inspiration. Again, so sorry about that.

 

  


 

_I know sometimes_

_it’s still hard to let me see you_

_in all your cracked perfection,_

_but please know:_

_whether it’s the days you burn_

_more brilliant than the sun_

_or the nights you collapse into my lap_

_your body broken into a thousand questions,_

_you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen._

_I will love you when you are a still day._

_I will love you when you are a hurricane._

-Clementine von Radics

 

 

"The world is so quiet."

Jensen glances up at him, watching the lights in the club amplify all the parts of Misha he can't understand. There's still a finger of amber in the glass that hangs heavy in his hand, and Misha's beer is held in his easy grip like a one night stand - important only for what it's worth, carefully construed until subliminally forgotten. Misha’s feet are splayed across the table, the previous pleading from their frazzled attendant going pointedly ignored, and he looks entirely too in his element for a club that has to constantly remind its patrons of the "21 and up" exclusion.

Jensen scoffs, which he is opt to do when Misha turns existential on him, and the sound is laced with familiarity. "The world is loud as shit, man."

Misha only hums a smile around his beer in response, eyes flitting over towards the mauve-colored walls to hide his condescending smirk, and for the third time tonight, Jensen wonders how they always end up here.

Rich had promised to meet them after karaoke dissolved into drunken giggling and questionable dexterity, and despite Jensen’s foreboding of empty promises, he had complied. He’d even been guaranteed the all-too-familiar VIP lounge, an entire level above the sweaty, dancing throng below them and padded with a lush material that Jensen was _sure_ enveloped every cigarette, spilled drink, and sweat stain that pilfered into the haze around them. And while the promise of reserved seating had been true, Richard and Matt were over an hour late, and Jensen's calls were being sent to voicemail with a pathetic sort of desolation.

And Misha is being _Misha_ again. The Misha that tries to open your mind by posing questions that he himself refuses to answer, the Misha that chuckles about Jensen's chakras and implies way more than he actually says. The Misha whose eyes refuse to glaze over, no matter how many beers deep he gets.

Fucking _Misha._

"Alright, I'll bite," Jensen sighs, an exhale of the long-suffering, because he _knows_ it’s an exercise in futility before he even begins. He wonders, slightly tipsy from scotch, if he’s a masochist; it’s the only logical explanation he can surmise from his continued outings with someone who flays his nerves like an artist. "Why is the world quiet, Mish?"

Misha switches his foot placement, turning one over the other on the table and Jensen catches the exasperated expression from their attendant in his peripherals, torn between her conversation with their security guard and her agitation at Misha's blatant disregard for regulations. Jensen smiles, despite his better judgement. Misha brings out that quality in him, the attraction to insubordination, and he still stumbles through whether or not he likes it.

"Do you think it's an introvert, extrovert thing?" Misha asks casually, because that's how he does _everything,_ with a perpetually nonchalant attitude that borders, in Jensen's professional opinion, on psychosis. Misha is perfectly content to go through life with a general disdain for rules and normality, and he is so adamantly _happy_ about it that Jensen is constantly see-sawing between fond appreciation and bewildered frustration.

"No," Jensen snorts, and takes another sip of scotch like a goddamn gentleman. The irk in the back of his throat stings harder than the liquor, and he lets it show, because Misha has yet to judge Jensen on behalf of his derision. "Not at all, because that's _exactly_ what I think, so it must be completely wrong."

Misha sticks his tongue out at him, as though childish behavior is completely acceptable, all things considered. "Please. You know I love your input."

"I think you love your pedestal."

"You're welcome to join me on it."

Jensen stares at Misha's shit-eating grin over the rim of his glass, wondering if he misheard through the thrums of bass, but knowing full well that 'inappropriate and insinuative' is Misha's default language, and it rolls off his tongue like the smug native speaker he tries to pretend he’s not. The blatant disregard of Jensen’s agitation should be fuel for the fire, but he finds himself leveling at the _Please, Jen_ sarcastic expression that Misha is familiar with adopting during Jensen’s petulant phases. That recognizable heat is pulling against Jensen’s gut, begging for his consideration.

He downs his scotch.

It’s going to be one of those nights, then.

Richard and Matt never show up, but a video message two hours later from Jared depicts them sprawled over a green room couch while security stands close by, picking each other’s brains on how they’ll get two drunken dead weights back to their rooms.

Jensen sighs and slips his phone back into his pocket. It’s two in the morning, and he’s drunk as shit.

Misha’s eyes are bright, but the table between them is littered with bottles, and there’s a sway in his movements that belie his drunken finesse. It takes Jensen all of two minutes to remember that they both have panels tomorrow, and he knows there isn’t enough Starbucks and Tylenol in the world to make 10 AM shrieking more bearable.

He stands and motions for Misha, who rolls his eyes, as if the whole concept of resting is _terribly_ inconvenient to him, but he’ll indulge Jensen regardless. Lights are flashing, and the thick music reminds Jensen of why he hates this whole scene, the club aspect, nothing but college kids wasting money they don’t have for sex they probably won’t get. He doesn’t belong here, and he’s vaguely bitter that he showed up at all.

But he can feel Misha press against his side like a security blanket, shouldering the burden that is Jensen’s proximity to the outside world, and the atmosphere becomes less tangible. Misha has that effect. Chasing away demons with an arm looped around his waist, like he’s as ingrained here as he is everywhere else.

Misha. With a foot in every clique.

Twenty minutes later and they’re half falling through Jensen’s hotel room door, having hastily escaped from an equally drunken fan, wandering the suites hallway as if she had known they’d be there. Jensen doesn’t even bother telling Misha to go back to his own room, and instead heads instinctively for his bed. He’s desperate for privacy, but Misha has always been so otherworldly that Jensen could never really slot him in as “company” while he drifts around the room, looking in cabinets for something only Misha would want at 2:30 in the fucking morning. Jensen wonders, blearily , why he always gets stuck with babysitting duty.

“...Jacket’s ugly,” he comments idly, throwing himself across the bed and wincing at how slurred his words are. He blindly swings his arm in the general direction of his bedside table, stopping only when his fingers connect with a half empty bottle of water that he immediately drowns himself in, hoping to ebb the incoming hangover.

“I asked you this morning, and you said it was fine.”

And of course, Misha sounds completely sober and in control, and even when Jensen catches him scuffing his feet on the carpet, tripping slightly, he still has to wonder if Misha is faking it, playing a game that Jensen can never, _ever_ win.

“Lied,” he mumbles, and before he can stop himself, “Wanted to see if I could make you look ridiculous. Taint the perfect image a bit.”

Misha smiles lazily, opening Jensen’s suitcase like it’s not an incredibly rude invasion of privacy, and if it were anyone else, Jensen would have snapped it shut. But of course, it’s Misha, and mentally Jensen is desperately trying to figure out how to shove a round peg labelled ‘Misha’ into the square hole of ‘reality.’

Misha hums in curiosity, pulling items out and studying them carefully, “Did it work?”

“No. They called you ‘eccentric.’” He pauses, staring at the plastered ceiling above him, his head swimming pleasantly. “That used to be an insult, you know.”

“It still is, to most.”

Silence falls over them and Jensen tears his eyes away from the comfort of a blank slate to watch as Misha lays clothes out across the small table at the end of the bed. Two pairs of jeans, two shirts. He takes a sweater away from one and adds a blazer. Replaces the second with a Henley. Studies, eyes flickering from the suitcase and back, unfazed at Jensen’s observations, the quirk of his mouth.

“You have your own clothes, you know. Your own room, even.”

Misha ignores him. “How’s this? Less eccentric?”

“Are you planning our outfits, man?”

“If you’d rather do it in the morning with the aftermath of half a bottle of Ballentine’s sloshing around in you, then I admire your bravery. Personally, I’d rather sleep in.”

Jensen scoffs, “You’d just wear the first thing you come across anyway, and people will think you’ve done it on purpose. What’s the point of planning?”

The soft comforter beneath him is making him drowsy, and his vision adjusts in and out of focus, urging him to close his eyes. He shakes away the call of feather-down long enough to kick off his shoes and remove his jeans, flopping back against his bed with a contented sigh. Misha remains standing, contemplating.

“You said my jacket was ugly.”

“It is.”

“Well I’d rather you not think that,” Misha finalizes, and he sounds like a child trying to pick a fight with an adult. Jensen feels a small twinge of regret that he’s the adult. _Again._

“What do you care what I think, Mish?”

And really, he’s just _tired._ He’d spent four hours with Misha’s questions, his chaotic presence and that hair that he never even _bothered_ to try and fix; with Misha’s spark of curiosity, and the never-ending itch under Jensen’s skin that he was just not measuring up to any of Misha’s fucked up standards. That he was constantly being quizzed by each little flash of blue sent his direction, but his answers would _always_ be wrong, regardless of how hard he tries to impress.  

Misha doesn’t respond, but follows Jensen’s lead and removes his shoes and the offending jacket, shimmying out of his pants for his own amusement before he clicks off the overhead light, drowning them in complete darkness save for the twinkling lights of the sleeping city outside the window.

Jensen really should kick him out. It isn’t the first time that Misha’s charmed his way into getting whatever he wants, whether it be first dibs on catering, the best seats, cheap forgiveness for being late, or Jensen’s bed after a late-night drinking session. The thought of voicing it is there, scratching the back of his mind and lingering on his tongue, but the words never take life.

Not allowing Misha to do whatever it is he wants to do feels too much like tempting fate. It’s screwing with the cosmos and their divine plan, and Jensen isn’t willing to be the one to mess with normalcy. He feels Misha slide in next to him, and he realizes, fleetingly, that he might truly be insane for being so entirely okay with it.

Fucking _Misha._

“You know I value your opinion, Jen,” are the last words spoken in the room before they succumb to liquor and the call of sleep, and they radiate a sense of what should be common knowledge. As if saying it twice will make it more discernible.

Because honestly, Jensen has never felt so utterly lost around a single human being. If Misha placed value on anything, if he weighed and calculated what each person could offer him in terms of friendship and stepping stones, Jensen was sure he wouldn’t even be worth the effort of conversation.

But Misha is there as he wakes, smiling at him like he had the best goddamn night of his life, and even manages to know exactly what Jensen wants from room service while Jensen pukes his guts up for the porcelain gods.

The morning is rushed, nothing but greasy breakfast and coffee, laughter at their own expense, and snarky, hungover insults that border just the right side of cruel. Jensen finds himself smiling too much, because when Misha isn’t exhibiting all those alarmingly superior qualities that come so naturally to him, there is a comfort in their friendship that easily surpasses all of Jensen’s shortcomings.

They leave the room together, with Misha looking so entirely composed, ready to face the day with a practiced ease that starkly contrasts the sick, anxious feeling in Jensen’s chest. It’s only then, with an emotional weight that flows like lead in his veins,  that Jensen remembers to feel inadequate.

 

///

 

If there was anything Jensen would love to properly convey to their fans, it was Misha at his worst. Because for all his smiles, quirkiness, and charity, Misha was an absolute whiny _bitch_ when things didn’t go his way.

And today was one of those days.

All it took was a cameraman knocking Misha’s tea over on set, spilling liquid across his shoes as Misha looks on, dusting off apologies and letting that particular frown set into place. Jensen is watching from afar when Jared nudges him, motioning towards the internal struggle Misha was having with whether or not he wanted to be mad. To let it ruin his day.

Jared grins, malicious and promising, because they both _know_ what that small, downwards slide of Misha’s expression means. Usually Jensen and Jared were the ones that began it, coy teases and small irritations that blossom into full blown bullying. They lock eyes, a silent conversation playing out with nothing more than a few seconds of sustained staring, and their day begins with an auspicious agreement.

By eight that morning, Misha is chewing the inside of his cheek after being hit directly in the nuts by a rubber ball they had found on set. His expression remains rigid, only glowering slightly as ‘ball’ was checked off next to ‘tea’ on Misha’s internal ‘what fucked me over today’ list. By noon, he’s had to repeat his scene seven separate times as Jared and Jensen make lewd expressions from behind the camera, pretending to orgasm right as Misha is to deliver a very serious set of lines. By twelve-twenty, crew members are pissed, and Misha is being escorted out, claiming that they’d try again tonight. Misha will have to stay later. The whole _crew_ will have to stay later.

By three, Misha’s rage and disharmony with the world is in full effect, and he’s snapping at people and cursing at the gravel under his shoes to avoid venting his frustrations further. Jared and Jensen are borrowing the extras' phones, sending hilariously inappropriate texts to Misha as they sit together, laughing as he reads them and scans the set with a bewildered, concerned curiosity. After four more anonymous numbers, his eyes finally fall on the duo, tears of laughter streaming from their faces, and he stalks off, too humiliated to even reciprocate.

By four thirty, they had gone too far. The pranks had been endless, and Misha is too out of character to continue shooting. Castiel is broken, eyes full of a furious, quivering sadness that permeates his facade, and the director finally calls for a cut, telling Misha, as unkindly as possible, to leave the set until he could get his head straight.

Jensen and Jared catch up with him as he exits into the sunlight, trenchcoat flapping indignantly behind him, but their laughter fades when they catch wind of Misha’s expression. Cloudy and red.

“Fuck off,” he mutters, and it’s so tightly wound, so coiled up and ready to break, that they back off, surprised. Jensen feels the first tremors of worry pass through him, but Jared’s eyes are still sparkling with delight as he watches Misha retreat.

“He’s such a brat sometimes.”

Jensen bites his lip. “Think we went too far?”

“No. He just needs to lighten up.”

But Jensen feels wrong, like he had capsized the boat and everyone was frantically swimming for shore. Misha is a brat on the worst of days, sure, but Jared is over the top. He is smiling still, unperturbed by Misha’s behavior, but this is all from a practiced choreography between him and Misha. For every bizarre facet that Misha was allowed without tease, Jared was forgiven for his boisterous overindulgence. Misha would never stay mad at Jared for his childlike cruelty, just as he’d never be mad at the sky for raining.

Misha forgives Jared for being Jared, just as Jared accepts Misha, wholeheartedly and without question. Jensen isn’t so sure he’s allowed the same luxury.

Which is why, ten minutes later, he finds himself opening the door to Misha’s trailer cautiously, assuming that his frantic heartbeat was loud enough to announce his arrival.

“Mish?”

Misha looks up from where his hand had been pressed against his forehead, and the red mark from heavy contact remains inked against his skin as he pulls it away. “Jensen. Hey.”

“Hey,” he responds, and it’s light, as though he could talk Misha off the edge that Jensen had backpedaled him towards. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Misha sighs, and he rubs his eyes furiously. “Just... trying to get it together.”

And maybe Jensen is surprised, sure, because he expected anger. Quite a bit of it. Or, more likely, the cold shoulder, because Misha is a pissy, studious thing when it boils down to core qualities, and Jensen has been on the receiving end of unanswered texts for long enough to realize that it's a bad idea to poke the tiger through the cage when it's already pacing and growling.

“I’m sorry. For today, I mean. I got out of hand.”

Misha doesn’t look at him, and that’s never a good sign, as unnecessary contact and prolonged eye fucking was something of Misha’s specialty.

“S’okay.”

He doesn’t move from the couch, and Jensen can’t will himself to move closer, so instead he hovers awkwardly by the door, irritated that he’s too scared of Misha’s rejection to try and comfort him, but not scared enough that he wouldn’t avoid hurting him in the first place. He tries hard not to think about how fucked that is.

“It’s not okay. You’re pissed.”

“Do I look pissed, Jensen?”

And there’s that tone, that slightly spiteful curve of inflection that gives away how furious Misha truly is, and Jensen is suddenly torn between rueful guilt and the agitation of Misha’s childish lies.

“You do. If you’re not okay just tell me. I wanted to apologize anyway.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“Alright, fuck you Misha,” Jensen spits, and the animosity is there, weak, paired with a feeling of discontent he can’t quite put his finger on. Misha’s anger always tilts his world, makes his life slightly askew and disorienting. He deals in ordinaries, in standards, and Misha severing his open, unbridled honesty with Jensen isn’t something he knows how to play his hand with. “I just wanted to see if you were okay; I didn’t come here to be bitched at.”

“Of course I’m okay, I’m not a child.”

Jensen wants to laugh, because seeing Misha there, swimming in intentionally too-large clothes with a pronounced scowl on his face, looks exactly like a child, sulking in their room after being reprimanded.

“You’re acting like one.”

“Says the guy that spent all day tormenting me. Someone needs to teach you how to apologize, Jen, seriously.”

“And someone needs to warm you up a bottle so you can take a fucking nap.”

There’s a stiff silence, and Jensen begins to contemplate the benefits of a public speaking class. Maybe he can find something online that can filter the stupid from his brain before it manages to slip from his mouth.

But then Misha is looking up at him, blue eyes magnified by the mirth hidden within them, and his mouth is tight-lipped, willing himself to stay angry despite his amusement. Jensen's shaky nerves can’t deal with the expression and he snorts wildly in laughter, watching as Misha melts with him, dissolving into good-natured chuckling that pairs all too well with the lunacy of the situation.

“Fucking idiot,” Misha mumbles, but it’s soft, almost fond, and Jensen feels the discontent flow out of his mind as though it had been siphoned from his body.

Fucking  _Misha._

He feels safe enough to move now, sliding his weight onto the cushions next to Misha and running a hand through his own hair in relief. “You freaked me out a bit, man. Jared, you know, he laughs this stuff off, but I just...” He pauses, because honestly, finishing that sentence in his head had been hard enough, and he’s praying that Misha is willing to pick up his train of thought before he crashes himself back down into humiliation.

“Laughs off what, exactly?”

“You being a bitch, basically,” Jensen chuckles, slightly uneasy. But Misha’s weight is next to him, grounding him, and if Misha wants to still be mad, then at least Jensen would _know_ it this time and forgo the dancing-around-the-truth routine that he had outgrown at least 20 years ago.

Misha makes a face, crinkling his nose like it hadn’t been what he was expecting, but he still isn’t too surprised. “Yeah, he knows I get over it though. You’re the only person here that puts me on suicide watch when I have a hissy fit.”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Hissy fit, hell. You go through puberty all over again.” He worries his lip against his teeth when the joke falls flat on his tongue. “Trust me, I wish I could just brush it off like everyone else seems to, but it doesn’t feel right. Feels like I pushed you too far, and it’s my responsibility, you know?”

Misha is watching him now, bemused, and the hint of a smile is ghosting across his face, something soft and well-worn. “You _know_  that I’m a cranky bitch though, Jensen. The sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.”

Jensen falters, because there’s a visceral honesty about Misha that he can’t ignore, and Jensen can’t help but revere a man that can so openly admit his imperfections. Misha doesn’t shame them, he doesn’t amplify them, they just _are,_ as much a part of Misha as his penchant for ugly sweaters and decidedly feminine giggles when he drinks too much. Every aspect of Misha makes up one part of a whole, but Jensen is always so wrapped around the _why,_ the never-ending comparisons that seem only to highlight his own flaws, that he can’t focus on what matters.

He can’t see the fucking forest for all the goddamn trees.  

He shifts in his seat, feeling exposed at Misha’s blatant admittance of his bad characteristic, and how worthlessly Jensen tries to hide his own faults. It stings. His bests are shadowed by Misha’s most humble, and his worsts are pitiful in the light of Misha’s raw acceptance.

He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t _have_ an okay answer, and instead pats Misha firmly on the back and steers him up and towards the door, the promising of staying late with him falling from his mouth like he had planned it all along.

But at least Misha is smiling again.

 

///

 

Early mornings are a constant, unavoidable consequence of Jensen’s career choices, but it doesn’t mean he has to enjoy them. He’s happy to stew in his own groggy demeanor until caffeine can coax him into something resembling an able-bodied adult. Jared, of course, is already wide awake and arm-deep in a large bag of candy, filling the makeup trailer with laughter and quips, begging Jensen to change the music so he’d have something to dance to.

“No dancing. I need to fix your face; you’re going to have quite a bit of blood on there today,” Zabrina teases, trying to still Jared’s head in her practiced fingers long enough to even out his complexion.

“You know, it’s a wonder they haven’t fired you yet, Zabrina,” Jensen mutters, waiting patiently for his turn to be painted as he dicks around on his phone, “Jared’s getting uglier by the day.”

“Don’t be jealous, Jensen, someone will find you attractive one day,” Jared quips back, shoving at least ten gummy bears in his mouth at once, tactfully avoiding the brush being swept across his face. “I hear that a lot of people prefer older men, so there’s hope for you yet. Oh-- speaking of old farts, welcome to the party, Misha.”

Jensen hadn’t bothered looking up when the door opened, but at the sound of Misha’s name, he raises his eyes to study Misha's quiet entrance in the mirror. Both him and Jensen share a passionate hate for mornings, though acclimation had set in a long time ago, numbing them, and each day is greeted with a sort of quiet, inward agony, satiated only by coffee and meaty breakfast burritos.

This morning though, Misha is shining, a cautious smile pulling at his weary morning features like a poorly guarded secret. He holds two cups of coffee, one black with copious amounts of sugar, and another with milk, the latter of which he passes to Jensen just like he’s done hundreds of times before.

Misha smirks at Jared, carefully dodging the wayward gummy bears on the floor that had eluded Jared’s mouth as he takes a seat between them. “With age comes wisdom,” he argues, and _fuck_ if you can’t hear the thinly veiled glee in his voice. “For example, I can do this thing with my tongue--”

Jared mimes a dry heave to interrupt Misha’s recounts of his sexual prowess, but Jensen is still focused on the curve of Misha’s mouth as he goes to take his first drink of still-scalding coffee.

“Alright Mish, spit it out. What’s got you in a such a good mood?”

Misha tries to feign innocence, but Jensen just raises his eyebrows, daring him to lie. It’s easier in public, where Misha tends to shrink back within himself and let the spotlight overtake them as a community rather than individuals. Jensen feels more like Misha’s equal when he has company there with him, where there will be nothing of Misha’s short-circuiting questions, none of those starlight stares and that collected, cool, challenging demeanor.

But Misha still meet his eyes, lingering only for a moment before he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Am I that obvious?”

Jensen scoffs, “You look like you finally found your balls and asked a girl to the middle school dance.”

“Shut up,” Misha snaps back, but his grin was wide and Jensen feels that same rush of vulnerability that he often gets when someone is exposed for him, baring true nature and honest colors.

“Come on then, out with it.”

“We got approved for Nicaragua,” Misha blurts out, like he had been _dying_ to tell someone, and Jensen wonders if Misha had managed to keep his mouth shut during the entire walk for coffee, patiently closing himself off from celebrating until he could share the news with Jensen.

Typical for Misha.

Jared’s face breaks into a responding grin. “Really? The whole project? So you’re really going then?”

“Yeah,” Misha replies, taking his first tentative sips of the black liquid in his cup. “It won’t be until next year, but we need the extra time anyway. There’s so much to plan, and that doesn’t include all of manual preparations...”

Misha and Jared fall into a comfortable conversation, questions about local life and the impact Misha hopes to make coupled with general exclaim and deep, unbridled _passion_ for charity work. Osric has already agreed to help, and Jensen’s throat suddenly gets tight.

He’s proud of Misha. He's proud to call him a friend, a _best_ friend, and god if the guy isn’t a good person. Every spare moment Misha has is poured back into whatever random act of kindness he is able to accomplish, and Jensen has seen the impact that Misha has made with his own eyes, the letters and videos, the tears and thank yous.

Misha is remarkable. He is humble, and self-sacrificing. He gives as good, _better_ , than he gets, and every waking moment of Misha’s life is spent trying to improve the life of someone else.

Jensen looked down at his Candy Crush game, wondering how many useless hours he has wasted, and feels more insignificant in that moment than he has in his entire life.  

 

///

 

They really shouldn’t be drinking on a weekday, considering their 5 AM call time, but Misha is finally back on set after a month-long leisurely absence, and Jared insisted on opening the two ridiculously expensive bottles of wine he’d sweet-talked Bob into buying him for his birthday.

Jensen is game, though he’s entirely certain that his trailer doesn’t even _have_ wine glasses, considering his preference for all things conveniently pre-bottled. So it’s really no big surprise that 10:30 PM finds them drinking fermented grape juice with a ludicrously high alcohol content from two sports mugs and a memorabilia Hooter’s cup.

Jared is studying his carefully, scratching the paint off with his fingernail in an attempt to make it read ‘tooters’ instead. “So how long are you gracing us with your presence, Misha?”

Misha is sprawled across the couch, since he apparently doesn’t know how to properly use furniture, and his eyes are trained to the speakers blasting 90’s hits ( _really,_ Jared) as though they’ve personally wronged him. His legs are across Jensen’s lap, because Misha always has his reasons for exhibiting his propinquity with Jensen, whatever they might be. Jensen wishes he knew sometimes, but the simmering of fear leaves him with no great pull to actually find out.

“About two weeks. At least, that’s the time estimate they gave me, but who knows. You might be stuck with me longer.”

“Oh good,” Jared replies, and it’s so difficult for Jensen to tell whether or not he’s drunk. Jared’s daily behavior borders on intoxicated by default, and the only real indication that he isn’t as sober as he’d been an hour ago is the concentration he’s paying to scratching up Jensen’s glass. Nothing but alcohol can get him to focus like that. “It’ll be nice to have fresh meat again. Everyone here is growing bored of my antics.”

“I didn’t think ‘bored’ and ‘terrified’ were synonymous.”

Jensen snorts in laughter, and Misha looks as pleased with himself as he always does when he surprises Jensen with bouts of humor. Which, if Jensen really cares to think about it (he doesn’t), it happens often enough that the luster should have faded, but Misha’s grin is as genuine now as it was the day Jensen first sent him a cautious, welcoming smile.

“What do you do when you’re back home, anyway?” Jensen ponders aloud, and has a sudden mental image of Misha, curled up in a chair with his cell phone clutched in his hand, his mind occupied by nothing but when they would call him back on set.

Misha smiles, but it’s devious, and Jensen can see the crucial moment when the gears start turning in his head and the spark in Misha’s eyes morphs from comical to purposeful. “Come visit me next break and I’ll show you.”

Jensen swallows thickly, because honestly, this is as normal as Misha can get, but the dichotomy of ‘Jensen normal’ and ‘Misha normal’ is so pronounced that he doesn’t know where to draw the line anymore. And he knows enough about Misha to realize that if he creates _anything_ resembling a ‘do not cross’ barricade, Misha will hardly even blink before stepping across it, satisfied only when his bulldozer of intent brings down every single wall that Jensen can build.

And he can feel the thrum of his heart, beating a new wall into life, built hastily and misshapen because Jensen _never_ thought something like Misha’s coy, flirtatious invitation could make his breath hitch, and it’s _not_ okay. He wasn’t prepared for a joke to be meaningful. For subliminal to be a punch in the gut.

The fallback that steels his nerves must match his expression, because Jared chuckles, taking another long drink of wine, “Easy tiger. You might break him.”

Misha stares at him, smiling in the unforgiving lights of Jensen’s trailer, but addresses Jared as he speaks. “Nonsense. He’s a man’s man, isn’t he?”

The innuendo isn’t missed on anybody, and Jared erupts into laughter, and yeah, the wine has been working perfectly if the way Jared curls in on himself in a giggle-fit is anything to go by. Jensen’s own head is feeling fuzzy and slow, but he’s aware enough to know that the joke was at his expense, and at the expense of his proclaimed die-hard sexuality, so it should be funny. It _should._

So he plasters a smile on his face and swallows up the unwavering question of _why_ he’s so unnerved, and mumbles a very meaningful, “Shuddup, assholes,” before following Jared’s lead and taking another drink that he gulps down a little too frantically.

The following two hours pass without any further incidents, and Jensen has all but forgotten his jostled brain and Misha-induced panic after another full glass disappears down his throat. The wine bottles were large, and now entirely empty, and Jared’s face is a little more red than it ought to be. Something about wine fucks him up every time, but from the way Jensen’s guard is lowered and Misha’s need to _touch_ everything within reaching distance is amplified tenfold, the two of them aren’t far behind.

Misha’s hair is back to it’s standard, haphazard disarray, and he is zoned in with Jared at the movie playing on the television, volume too loud and music too low. _Grandma’s Boy_ , if Jensen remembers, but he’s far too relaxed and comfortable to pay the film any of the devoted attention that his friends are keen to give it.

Instead, he watches _them_ , which is borderline creepy, but he has three and half glasses of good reasoning soaking into his stomach, and a peaceful lack of urgency settling his nerves. Misha has gotten up several times, moving to all corners of the room to examine and talk and _be,_ but now he’s perched on the arm of Jared’s chair, glassy eyes fixed and steady, and his lips curve in the smallest of smiles. Jared is biting his knuckle unconsciously, laughing into it as he watches three very stoned grandmothers roll around the floor on the TV.

Everyone is so fucking _content_.

Until Misha moves. He switches to the sofa and flops back against Jensen’s shoulder, ignoring the wince Jensen shoots him, but the pain and irritation is muffled beautifully by the alcohol singing through his veins, and the weight is almost welcome (Misha’s weight always is, though that interesting little notion is usually smothered by the sweet modesty that sobriety brings). His arm is uncomfortable, and he slings it across Misha’s shoulder without any real intent. Habitual. It isn’t the first time Misha has used him for one purpose or another, and a pillow isn’t really the worst he’s ever been.

They relax against each other, Jensen’s laughter joining Jared’s now that the object of his attentions is fully pressed against his side, sated and hopefully under control. The less of Misha he can see moving fluidly across his field of vision, the less his brain starts to worry about things he hasn’t considered since high school. Jensen has him sheltered, and he’s very aware that this is exact reason that handlers sick him on Misha when the latter starts to get out of control, moody, or finicky. Jensen’s the weighted blanket, the pacifist, the retreat, and Misha’s acute sense of preservation. He is the leash.

And _g_ _od,_ do they have that so wrong. A more realistic depiction would define Misha as the ticking time bomb, badly hidden underneath the coat that Jensen holds shut with unsteady, shaking hands.

He knows Misha is watching him, feels the itch under his skin to turn and look, but he’s too timid. He wishes he could guesstimate what Misha is thinking, and assumes it must look (and sound) like an upended bag of marbles that bounce around in Misha’s head, each clashing color a new idea, a thought, a reaction and a movement. Jensen can feel the chaos prickle across his skin, and imagines that the commotion of thought must be enough to competently label Misha as--

 _Certifiably insane_ is what he reasons as Misha turns his face with warm fingers and kisses him.

Funny how things line up.

Fucking _Misha._

He kisses back, because he’s too shocked and frightened to take control and pull away, and going along with the crowd has always served him well in the past. Plus, there’s that whole ‘tempting fate’ thing again, and the discomforting notion that it brings battles ferociously with the somersaults in his stomach when Misha tilts his head just slightly, getting just a little bit deeper.

It’s three seconds of slide and press before Misha is grinning against his lips, like they’re sharing an inside joke that Jensen is too debilitated to remember. Misha pulls away, and Jensen must be way more drunk than he realized, because that elated, content feeling is buzzing down to his very bones, magnified by the fading tingle that ghosts across his mouth, and he’s chasing Misha’s retreat, a hand coming to cup Misha’s jaw until he can get back just some semblance of that connection with Misha that everyone else seems to get so easily.

Misha relents happily, allowing Jensen to pull him forward and _take_ , take all of the things he can’t understand, the essence he can’t pinpoint, and that horrible uncertainty that plagues him with each penetrating stare, every silent smile, every moment that everyone else seems to just _accept_ without thinking. Everyone seems to get Misha, though no one seems to _have_ him.

 

                                                                                         

 

Jensen only pulls away when he feels Misha trying to slip his tongue between his lips, because yeah, _no._ There’s an aching need in his chest that he can’t ignore, but he can feel that same prickling sensation again and sure enough, Jared is staring at them when he manages to sift through the weights in his head long enough to look away from that startling, starlit blue.

But Jared only shrugs like the huge, gigantic prick that he is, and turns his attention back to the movie, not even bothering with the socially accepted reaction of being mortified. In fact, he doesn’t seem to care at all save for the cognizant grin on his face, and Jensen sits there, waiting for the phantom press against his mouth to fade as he tries to recount exactly what it was that brought him here.

And to think, he _encouraged_ them to keep Castiel on the show.

Misha moves towards the fridge when Jensen shows no signs of being a functional human being, and he returns with two bottles of beer, opening one with his teeth and passing it to Jensen.

Because of _course_ Misha can open bottles with his teeth. Besides being completely undefinable, Jensen hasn’t discovered a skill Misha hasn’t been able to at least replicate.

“Here,” Misha smiles, and it’s cocky and annoying, shadowing just about every bad habit that Jensen has ever known. “Helps drown out the gay.”

The grin he shoots Jensen is carnal, _knowing,_ and he doesn’t seem the least bit miffed at the sour look Jensen is trying to glower him with. Jensen wants to be mad, he _does,_ but when the anger finally triumphs over shock, it’s directed inward instead of the man next to him, and it’s feeble at best. His heart feels fit to beat out of his chest, and he can’t help but fathom at how _okay_ everyone seems to be. Jealously sits hard in his stomach.

He wants to be Misha, unbridled, confident, and free of the horrible, nagging demon known as social stigma. He wants to be Jared, who can watch two of his best friends, his co-stars, engage in an unspeculated and impromptu kiss with hardly an eyebrow raise. He wants to be _Jared_ , who can take all of Misha’s antics and random knowledge and extemporaneous gestures of grandeur without batting an eye, as though it’s as normal as Jensen’s debilitating anxiety and lackluster social outings. He wants to be what everyone else is, because they can all adore Misha without analyzing the psycho babble and the minuscule smiles that set Jensen's nerves aflame.

He takes a drink, the slight pang of cold against his lips a stark contrast to the last thing he had pressed there, and he swallows the beer right along side his unease, pressing both down and knowing that one can’t exist while the other is accessible. He’ll let them battle it out.

Misha leans up against his side and turns his attention back to the movie, as though the whole ‘recovery’ period that Jensen is quietly, but fretfully, panicking over, is far beyond his realm of necessity. Jensen supposes it probably is.

There’s a small voice in the back of his head that whispers in the dark, telling him to stop, _relax_. That maybe if he quits trying to figure Misha out, he might actually be able to enjoy the company Misha so desperately wants to employ.

He drowns out that voice.

And when Jared leaves, Misha stays, climbing into bed with Jensen like it had never been a viable option to go back to his own, considerably smaller trailer. The one AM darkness is spilling across the sheets, and Jensen wants to pretend to be bothered at the company, but Misha is already passed out across Jensen’s preferred pillow, likely drooling, and his fingers are twitching as though he’s lost in a nightmare.

And it’s the alcohol, _really_ it is, but Jensen reaches out for the expanse of clothed back, running a hand down Misha’s spine, the dip between muscles, splaying his fingers out and touching in a way that he’d never admit to himself in the morning. But Misha stops twitching, curling the pillow further into his arms as he unconsciously seeks out the touch, falling into a deeper sleep as Jensen finishes his motion and pulls his hand away. He can’t help the satisfied smile that graces his face before he falls asleep, closer to Misha than he ought to be.

Human after all, then.

 

///

 

The following week passes by quickly, and none of them make any mention to the occurrence that happened in Jensen’s trailer. It’s slowly driving Jensen mad, while Jared laughs easily and Misha saunters around on set like he’s already written out his own destiny and has _nothing_ to fear from life. Jensen begins to wonder if it even happened at all.

It’s only during a break, when Jensen is sitting at a lunch table, happily surrounded by the curing qualities of fettuccine, that the second shoe decides to drop.

“Jen, can I get the keys to your trailer? I think I left my jacket in there and it’s the warmest one I have.”

Misha is smiling at him expectantly, and Jensen has to look twice, unused to seeing him in the standard-issue ‘Supernatural’ jacket that he’d very obviously stolen off of someone. Jared is sitting at the table across from him, scrolling leisurely on his phone, and seems entirely disinterested in the proceedings. Jensen fishes out his keys and hands them to Misha, pointedly looking away as quickly as possible and waving off Misha’s thanks.

It’s not weird. Jared wouldn’t think anything of it, and hell, Jared has left his shit scattered across Jensen’s floor way more times than he can count -- and that was well before Misha even showed up. But somehow, this was different. And Jensen isn’t stupid, he knows it’s only different because he _believes_ it to be different, but that’s hardly saying much, because the literal definition of Misha in the dictionary would be that one, bolded word, underlined and several font sizes too big--

“I’m surprised he doesn’t have his own key.”

Jensen stops his mental thought-vomit and focuses on Jared’s words, trying to decipher any hidden meaning behind them. But Jared is blunt. No mysteries.

“Why would he?”

And maybe, _maybe_ Jensen could have done better. He could have given a half-hearted laugh and changed the subject, he could have waved away Jared’s statement and pulled out his own phone for an immediate out; he could have done a load of better things than a blatant continuation of the conversation.

But there’s a very large part of him that’s morbidly curious for what Jared has to say.

“Well, he’s at your trailer often enough, isn’t he? Just get him his own key.”

He does a quick mental tally of how much time he has spent with Misha, comparing it with the time he spends with Jared, and reaches a conclusion that he feels he could confidently back up with solid _facts._ He loves facts. They’re the complete opposite of telltale expressions and half-truths; they’re everything Misha is _not_.

“You’re there all the time too, and you’ve never needed a damn key.”

“Yeah, but I don’t spend the night, do I?”

Jensen tries not to balk, for his credit, but the pasta in his mouth goes from delectable to tar faster than his dignity hits the floor. He wonders how Jared knows, before the horrible realization hits that Jensen hasn’t really been trying to _hide_ it. Him and Misha show up for wardrobe together, they get coffee together (which is only a small step up from Misha getting it for him before that), and it’s probably been fairly obvious that no lights are ever on in Misha’s trailer.

“It’s just when we drink. Can you imagine him trying to stumble back to his own bed? We’d have to file a missing person’s report at least once a week.”

It’s a piss-poor attempt at humor, and they both know it, but Jensen is spitting out words as fast as he can get them to avoid the influx of reality that seems intent on crushing him from all sides. On one hand, it’s a little mortifying that Jared (and probably not _just_ Jared) is fully aware that him and Misha have curious little sleepovers, but he’s also wholeheartedly relieved that _someone_ seems to think it’s as inappropriate as he does.

“So, you guys drank Wednesday night as well? And last night?”

Jensen pushes his food around on his plate, thinking. Thinking about all the things he’d been _avoiding_ thinking about for the past week. He looks up at Jared, but there’s no shit-eating smirk there, just Jared, ready and waiting for Jensen to bare all of his insecurities until Jared can stitch him back up, like a patchwork quilt that people keep ripping their favorite patterns from, leaving him barren and incomplete.

“He brought me dinner Wednesday, something he made while you and I were doing that god awful warehouse scene. We hung out for a while and he just… went and passed out, like we had discussed it beforehand or something. You know how he…” Jensen trails off, but Jared gives a brief nod of understanding, twirling his own food around his fork and purposely not meeting Jensen’s eyes. It’s been more than a decade of friendship, and Jared knows exactly how much eye contact Jensen can tolerate during a ‘spill your guts’ session.

“And last night?”

Jensen shifts, looking around uneasily. He isn’t embarrassed of being overheard, per say, but the thought of someone hearing and figuring out his situation before Jensen can even wrap his head around there being a situation at _all_ \-- that has him nervous. Because everyone always seems to know what’s going on well before he does, at least where Misha is concerned.

“He just… showed up. It was late, you remember, and I was fucking tired, so he told me to go bed and said that he’d clean up everything. I crashed. I don’t even remember him getting in next to me, but he was there when I woke up.”

It feels a little anti-climatic to say aloud, but Jensen’s unease still seems valid. It’s not every day you wake up with a man in your bed, at least not one you haven’t slept with, and Jensen hasn’t really given much thought to going down that road, even if he does think about that kiss more than he’d like to admit.

Jared, of course, reads his mind. “So, that kiss…?”

Jensen sighs. “I don’t know what that was, man. Drunken lack of inhibition, maybe?”

“Misha had his reasons, I’m sure,” Jared smiles, to Jensen’s dismay, as if Misha sneaking make-out sessions onto unsuspecting coworkers is an _endearing_ quality. Jensen wants to smack his head into the table, because it’s very clear that everyone around him has lost their goddamn minds. Jared chuckles, like he knows, before asking, “But it hasn’t happened again? I mean, laying in bed together, you know…”

“ _No_ ,” Jensen reacts immediately, and he’s surprised at how adamant he sounds, so he softens his voice. “No, nothing like that. We just... sleep.”

And his words must sound pained, because Jared looks at him like _Sam_ would look at him, and Jensen shifts slightly in discomfort, because character bleed is unnerving as all hell. He still gets nightmares that Jared is dying in his arms out on the pavement.

“Are you, you know, okay with this?”

And fuck it all if Jared doesn’t know how to ask the one question that has Jensen tripping from the sidewalk and into the gutter, stumbling to regain his footing. Jared has a beautiful, agonizing habit of winding twelve questions around a single string of words, and Jensen can feel the numerous answers he can supply doubling the more he replays his moments with Misha, trying to chip away how he _should_ feel until he can reach a solid, credible response that doesn’t sound like six layers of bullshit and anxiety.

“I don’t know,” is what he finally mumbles, and it’s the most god-honest truth he’s said all day, even if it answers nothing. “I know it _shouldn’t_ be okay. People don’t… you and I, we don’t…” He blubbers off into nothing, words and reasoning floating in a space that is just beyond his grasp, but stretching out to try and reach them is too exhausting for him to handle. “It’s so okay that it’s _not_ okay, you know?”

Jared seems to accept it, as he does _all_ things, but there’s a crease across his forehead that almost looks like disappointment.

“You know, Misha is…” Jared pauses, and his expression shifts into something tender, like he’d had an internal revelation. “He’s not as complicated as you seem to think.”

Jensen scoffs, but the world is slowly starting to come to life around him again, and he knows that his conversation with Jared is tapering off onto solid ground. “Sure, try being me and say that.”

“Ugh, no thanks,” Jared makes a face, which is absolutely _disgusting_ with all the food he has piled in his mouth, but the small dose of comedy thankfully signals the end of their chick-flick moment. Which is lucky, because less than a minute later Misha pops back into the tent, dropping his keys into Jensen’s waiting palm while Jensen tries not to laugh at how ludicrous Misha looks in a trenchcoat, a Supernatural crew jacket, and a large, winter overcoat all piled on top of him.

He walks back out of the tent, grinning as Jensen’s laughter follows him, and shouts out, “You’ll thank my pro-active warmth when you have to cut open my body and crawl inside to escape the chill of the apocalypse, Jensen!”

Jensen has to wipe the tears from his eyes, and his body feels lighter than it had all week.

Fucking _Misha._

 

///

 

He’s surrounded by children.

Not _literal_ children, obviously, but the only real differences between the Supernatural cast and a daycare center is that no one is crying and they all _love_ naps.

Matt is busying himself by chucking skittles across the green room, and Jared is lunging to catch them in his mouth before they patter across the floor, completely ignored until they’ll become fodder for Creation to complain about later. Ruth is making idle chatter with Osric, their abandoned game of rummy laid out on the table between them. Jensen is twelve minutes away from his panel with Jared when Misha finally decides to make himself known by trying dramatically throwing open the back curtain.

He looks haggard, a little worse for wear, but his smile radiates in the room around them, and Jensen is convinced that three hours of sleep could never look so good on anyone else. He knows Misha is running late, and he knows it’s Misha’s own damn fault. He agrees to do every photoshoot, every signing, and generally immerses himself in cons as much as the coordinators will allow him, and his proclivity for spending too much time with every single fan has him perpetually behind schedule.

So what he’s doing here, Jensen can hardly imagine.

“You’ve got autographs, Misha. They start in about...fifteen minutes ago.”

“I know,” Misha responds, breathless, but he’s nearly _vibrating_ with a happy intensity, grabbing a water bottle from the cooler and falling onto the couch next to Jensen, pulling out his phone as he goes. “Just had to make a pitstop.”

And before Jensen can argue, Misha is holding the phone at arm's length and pressing his lips against Jensen’s cheek, a sharp flash capturing the moment before Jensen can comprehend the arrangement. He opens his mouth to complain, the bright light still blurring his vision, but Misha is standing again, already walking away, water bottle pressed into the nook of his arm as he types frantically into his phone.

“See you in a few hours!”

And he’s gone, disappearing from the room just as quickly Jensen’s fading self control as he reaches up to touch the side of his face, a confused frown pulling at his features. It takes only half a minute before Ruth, because she’s _Ruth_ (and Jensen knows all about the little ‘heart eyes’ she makes whenever Misha and Jensen are within two feet of each other), starts cooing.

“Oh, Jensen, that one needs to be framed, don’t you think?”

She’s looking at her phone, doing that sly little _grin_ she does when Misha’s antics are particularly amusing, and Jensen already knows what all those twitter notifications on his screen are going to tell him.

But, since he seemingly loves the pain that Misha inflicts on him, he opens the app and goes straight to Misha’s feed, finding his own dazed expression staring back at him, Misha’s mouth pressed against the skin of his cheek in a kiss that emanates pure affection and comfort. His grip on his phone tightens, and his stomach lurches into a flip.

He wants to analyze the stars in his own eyes. He wants to know, disquiet be damned, why picture-him looks so very content, despite Misha’s proximity and the entire _unknown_ that he carries around himself like a gravitational pull. He wants to know why things like this are _not_ okay, yet no one seems to realize it. But mostly, he wants to know how Misha can get away with anything he fucking wants to.

_Sorry about being late, #PasCon attendees! But... can you blame me? @JensenAckles_

The notifications in that tiny icon on his screen have already passed the ‘99+’ mark, and Jensen resigns himself to avoiding the internet entirely for the next few weeks. He looks around the room, but the only people that seem to be fazed are online, and subsequently, they’re the only people that don’t actually know _anything_ they seem to claim to. 

He feels like joining them sometimes. Maybe they can all be happy, confused, and in glorious pain about Misha together.

Jensen goes back to his hotel room a few hours later, as soon as he’s not needed. There’s a lump in his throat and a nagging ache in his chest that tells him he knows _exactly_ what this gut-wrenching feeling is, but he shoves it down and nails the proverbial coffin closed, because Misha isn’t a rational human being, and hell if Jensen's going to start thinking of him as one.  

He’s hardly surprised when there’s a knock at his door an hour later, and he really has to find out who keeps giving Misha his room number.

There’s no tension, and Misha flits around the room like it’s a second home, snagging a water from the minibar as Jensen removes whatever clothes he doesn’t want to sleep in. It should be strange (Jensen keeps telling himself that it _is_ ), but as long as Misha stays a reasonable distance away -- both physically and emotionally -- Jensen will be just fine. He _will._ All he has to do is lie in bed and turn his back away, and Misha will curl up almost entirely under the covers like a fucking cocooned animal, and they’ll wake up ready for coffee and tea and stupid pre-packaged fruit arrangements and the flight back to Canada.

That’s what Jensen expects from Misha, so naturally, that’s not what he gets.

“Are you angry with me?”

And at first, Jensen feels bad, because Misha’s voice is soft around the edges, hesitant, and it throws Jensen for a fucking loop. Because he’s Misha, perfectly agreeable, glass-half-full, eccentric _Misha_ , and for God’s sake, what could he be upset about? Embarrassing Jensen never ranked high on Misha’s ‘things I give a shit about’ list, so yeah, Jensen feels that prickle of shame. Of course he’d made Misha feel guilty, _somehow._ Leave it to him to suck the whirlwind right out of a force of nature.

“About the picture? No.”

And he’s not, not really, he just hates that constant reminder of how entirely sub-par he feels when Misha slots in next to him. He knows it’s wrong, but he can’t pinpoint exactly _why._ Jealousy, maybe; insecurity, _definitely_ ; but in the faint light that glows through the window and highlights all of the worry on Misha’s face, Jensen just wants to understand _why_ Misha unnerves him so. If he knows, maybe he can make it stop.

“I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

But Misha looks so fucking minuscule, burrowed under blankets like he’s waiting for Jensen to kick him out, to berate him about privacy and boundaries, that Jensen can feel his resolve crumbling alongside those walls he keeps putting up.

Because as hard as it is to come to terms with Misha’s bratty behavior, his _pedestal_ , his selflessness and brazen antics, _this_ is the only thing Jensen can’t really accept. The concerned, almost frightened look on Misha’s face that somehow, just by being his unabashed self, he had disappointed Jensen. That he had hurt him.

And before he knows what’s he’s doing, before he can second guess himself, he’s pulling Misha flush against him, the only comfort and promise that he currently knows how to give, mumbling insults about how stupid Misha is against his hair. Thankfully, Misha rolls with it (of _course_ he does), and he can feel the smirk against his skin as he wraps his arms more comfortably around the heated body next to him, trying to push down the panicked warnings that are lighting up the inside of his skull.

They fall asleep together easily, like they had always known how, and that familiarity comes in a close second on Jensen’s list of ‘Misha-related things he’s not willing to accept.’ But in that brief moment, he pushes it aside, and the lingering voice that strains desperately against his walls to tell him that he _deserves_ this is almost loud enough for him to hear.

 

///

 

The second kiss comes as unexpectedly as the first. The real surprise is how long it takes Jensen to realize it happened at all.

All actors had been excused from the set for at least two hours thanks to a rat that had chewed through a good chunk of their lighting wires. They weren’t given leeway to change, in case it took less time to get the set back up to filming conditions, so Jared and Jensen retreat to Jared’s trailer, dressed to the nine’s in their FBI attire as they start up a match on Black Ops.

Misha had followed them dutifully and is seated on the tiny kitchenette in a far less impressive suit (poor Jimmy), trench coat tossed carelessly across the back of the sofa where it will likely wrinkle, and Misha will end up facing a serious talk from wardrobe. Clif had accompanied them, free for the remainder of the day, and is reading a comic book in resolute silence in the chair across from Jared.

“The Vector is a better fit for you, Jen,” Misha mumbles after four minutes of unusual silence, scrolling absently through the pictures on the laptop Jensen had left there last week. “Maybe the SCAR. You don’t spray and pray, you’re precise.”

“Fuck off, Misha, you don’t even play.”

Misha only smiles in response, never tearing his eyes away from the computer screen, and Jensen should really give consideration to being bothered by the privacy invasion. Jared opens his mouth, likely to reiterate exactly what Misha said, but snaps it shut with a lopsided grin at the warning look on Jensen’s face.

It only takes another three minutes for his K/D ratio to fall substantially, and Jensen begrudgingly trades out his AK for the Vector and grumbles under his breath two minutes later at how appropriately it suits his play style.

Fucking _Misha_.

Two matches pass, in which Jensen’s video game prowess is realized, though it still takes backburner to Jared, who remains at the top of the leaderboard after every match and enthusiastically rubs Jensen’s face in it. Misha comments lightly, mostly offering Jared praise and tsk-ing when Jensen forgets to strafe around a corner, occasionally giggling at whatever he finds hidden in the recesses of Jensen’s computer. Clif remains so quiet that Jensen forgets that he’s there, focused on his bitter rivalry with Jared and not much else.

Just as Jensen’s accusing Jared of screen-looking for additional advantage, there’s a knock on the door and one of the directors assistants pops his head in and grins, likely relieved that he found all of them in one place.

“Oh good, Misha, you’re here. They need you over on set so they can line up your marks again. Jared, Jensen, they don’t want you back for another hour or so.”

Jared and Jensen nod their acknowledgement and thanks, focusing again on the game, and Jensen can hear Misha shifting around behind them, closing the laptop and sliding off the edge of the table.

He’s hardly aware when Misha pulls his coat from where Jensen had been pressed against it on the couch, buttons digging into his back. He’s even less aware when Misha stands beside him to pull it on, watching the match as intently as Jared and Jensen are playing it. And he’s clearly on another plane of existence when Misha leans down and kisses him on the corner of the mouth, mumbling a short goodbye into his skin, both of which Jensen return.

The door opens, creaks, and shuts before Jensen realizes what had happened.

“Wait--” he startles, watching as his character gets downed point-blank with a SPAS. The air is sucked directly from his lungs, lighting up his chest with a painful fire. He drops his controller absently and looks wildly at Jared, his heartbeat climbing rapidly into his throat. “Wait--”

But Jared only cocks an eyebrow at him, barely containing the smile that threatens to spill across his features like the upending of every chivalrous move he’s ever known. Jensen stares at him, lost, trying to backtrack the past twenty seconds in an effort to separate truth from an uncomfortably persistent daydream he’d been all too guilty to indulge.

“The fuck was that?”

It’s Clif’s booming question that breaks Jensen from his stupor, and he can physically feel his eyes go wide as he stares back at Clif, racking his brain for what to say. His mouth has gone dry, swallowing _hurts,_ and he’s all too aware that the lack of a proper response isn’t the only thing keeping him from speaking. With what mental capacity he manages to pry from the depths of his shattered reasoning, he prays to Jared for salvation from answering.

Jared saves his ass, as usual.

“That, I believe, was Jensen’s acceptance.”

Jensen can’t begin to decipher what Jared means, but it doesn’t matter, because Clif’s expression slips from worried confusion to complete satisfaction, pondering only for a moment before nodding his consent as though Jared had made _perfect_ sense, and going back down to his comic.

With Clif’s curiosity sated, Jensen cautiously picks his controller back up, if only to have a distraction from the neurons sparking up a catastrophic realization in his brain. Heat is blossoming across the back of his neck while he tries to focus on the precious few seconds that had gone uncharted in their comfortable affinity.

Misha kissed him. That wasn’t entirely strange in itself, but either he had missed Jensen’s cheek on accident, or he had meant to go for the kill, a chaste brush of familiarity over the curve where skin met lips, just the right angle to be meaningful without blocking Jensen’s game. If it had been the latter, Jensen knew it was a joke. It _had_ to be a joke. It was just Misha, stepping up his game to confound Jensen in every way possible.

But if that were true, there should have been a malicious smile on those lips that had pressed quickly against his. A small inkling of true intentions.

He turns to Jared, because it’s definitely the only constant in his life anymore, and he needs that sturdy grip on the world around him. He’s given up trying to mentally coerce the round ‘Misha’ peg into the square ‘reality’ hole, and is now furiously bashing the peg in with a hammer. He can feel each dizzying strike like a wrecking ball to his brain, his _walls,_ and barely manages to get out the words, “That was a joke, right?”

But Jared turns away from him, smiling that god-forsaken _knowing_ smile that Jensen is fucking sick of seeing on people, coupled with a strange, happy twinkling in his eyes. “I don’t think so, man.”

And as if on cue, his phone vibrates in his pocket, offering promises through the fabric that supply a warmth to his bones. He pulls it out, exhaling quietly when he sees the notification of a text from Misha. His relief is tangible. Here is the ‘lol, got you, asshole,’ or the ‘aw, Jensen, you do love me,’ or anything teasing that will ease the pounding pulse in Jensen’s ears and the small twinges of hope that he’s desperately trying to bury alongside that coffin he’s so sure he nailed shut.

Instead, what he gets is Misha, finally as bare as Jensen feels when he lies awake, watching the curve of Misha’s shoulder rise and fall in that carefully measured space between them.

_‘Fuck. Did that just happen?’_

 

///

 

Misha _knows_ Jensen, and thank god for small miracles, because Jensen sees very little of him for the following week outside of what is contractually required. He knows it’s Misha being polite, letting Jensen work his way through the storm of his own emotional upending, but Jensen is convinced that Misha’s roundabout avoidance is only causing more damage, highlighting aspects of Jensen’s very existence that had remained entirely incomprehensible.

It had started simply enough, when Jensen was dragging his way through morning shoots and Jared observed that he hadn’t had his coffee. Of course he hadn’t, since Misha was currently playing canary in the coal mine and hadn’t braved the makeup trailer until Jensen was deemed to be at an unapproachable distance.

And sure, Jensen could have gone and gotten it himself, but fucking _normalcy_ is important to him, and he tries desperately not to think of how easily his normal and Misha’s normal have been cohabiting for the past six years, despite Jensen’s declaration of Misha’s insatiable need for disarray.

Misha’s avoidance is as easy to ignore as a neon sign wedged into his field of vision from all angles. There’s a distinct pocket of emptiness that borders just out of Jensen’s reach, something he can see, _feel,_ but nothing he can grasp and fill with the lackluster placeholders of beer and self-pity.

Professionally, Misha stands close to him on set, and Jensen, on the flipside, knows Misha well enough that he recognizes a bid for complacency, a request to shove out the elephant in the room and _forget._ Misha’s jokes feel a bit too rushed, like trying to shove too much water through the smallest of cracks, and it’s threatening to break the dam they’ve built of never-awkward morning routines and carefully defused calamities.

It’s wrenching, and by that Tuesday, almost a week later, Jensen’s hand finds it’s way to Misha’s shoulder like a moth to a flame, and his surprise at finding shirt and skin rather than licking fires must break the facade of steely purpose etched into his features, because Misha is watching him, head tilted with worry.

“Are you okay?”

And god _damn_ that question.

He swallows, because imagining scenarios in his head, being the star of a conversation filled with witty comebacks and a lightning fast tongue was entirely moot when Jensen fails to remember how easily Misha can unravel him.

“No. I mean, yes--Misha…” He presses his hand into his face, and he’s absolutely sure that his brain must be melting from the inside out, because everything he had meant to say is crawling away from comprehension faster than Jensen ever gave his social blights credit for.  “Look, can we just stop?”

“Yes,” Misha answers immediately, with absolute solidarity, as though he’d wanted nothing more than what Jensen just proposed. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Stop what?”

And it’s that more than anything, more than Misha’s actual surrender, that breaks Jensen’s unease and lets it crumble beneath him. Whatever Misha wanted, whatever he had thought Jensen was going to lay out, whether a blueprint for reconstruction or a two-week notice on their song-and-dance-and-kiss routine, that had all been pushed aside to make room for what Jensen _needed._ Whatever that may have been.

“Just… I’m not mad, okay? I’m not going to deck you if you get within reaching distance.”

There’s a change to the shallow depth in Misha’s eyes, and Jensen swears he’d sell his soul for a handbook on how to translate it, but Misha’s mouth is moving and he has to catch himself before he can miss the cautious words that he’s so very desperate not to hear.

“I didn’t want to make it worse--”

“ _This_ is making it worse,” Jensen interrupts, gesturing towards the amplified space between them and hoping that Misha gets his insinuation. “I’m not mad,” he repeats, and it’s softer, carefully wrapped around words he can’t quite figure out how to say. “But being afraid of me isn’t making me feel any better.”

“Sorry,” Misha replies quickly, and his eyes are studying, rolling over Jensen in that horrible way they do when Misha is trying to read words that Jensen resorts to plastering across his face rather than digging out of his throat. “We’re… good then?”

Jensen chews his lip, because he knows exactly how hard this must be for Misha. Misha, who survives solely through an enigmatic flair but can’t stomach the thought of unsaid words, of repressed explanations and counter-productive avoidance. But Jensen isn’t ready, so instead of waiting until Misha lets the inevitable _Should we talk about what happened_ slip from his mouth with the poise of good intentions, Jensen shifts the dynamic.

“Of course we’re good, man,” he replies, slinging an arm around Misha’s shoulders and trying desperately to remain as level-headed and casual as he can before it borders on insincerity. “But don’t think you don’t owe me almost a week’s worth of coffee.”

He waits to see the disappointment of dismissal flash across Misha’s face, the swift change of expression that could marginalize and dash Misha’s suddenly elevated security. But nothing comes save the unabashed, happy smile that graces Misha face as he moves to wind his own arm around Jensen’s shoulders in return.

The relief that floods through him is unexpected, though entirely welcome, and it fills in all those little holes that had been dotting through his perpetually “okay” persona during Misha’s wary distance.

And when they wind their way back to set, it’s a little harder to let his fingers drift down Misha’s back to separate them entirely, and he spends the rest of the day battling an itch for a comfort he hadn’t realized he so desperately craved.

Fucking _Misha._

 

///

 

It’s 11:23 on a Wednesday, three weeks later, when Jensen barrels past reasoning.

Shooting had started late, devoted entirely to combat scenes they had practiced for days in sweatpants as they mused over their scripts, red bulls in hand and laughter on the tips of their tongues. But of course, Jensen, Misha, and Jared were entirely different than Dean, Castiel, and Sam, and when the time came for Misha to pretend to crack his fist against Jensen’s jaw, there’s no spark of humor, and no tittered smiles.

It’s a closed set, and an emotional scene. Even Jared is forlorn, sucked into the deep recesses of Sam that he alone can access, letting the weight of guilt pile against his conscience until his eyes are darkened and shallow. Misha had donned his attire, the tan of trenchcoat soaked with the corn syrup of blood, and his expression is heady, motivated, jilted. Jensen’s fingers twitch, and he can feel familiarity in the sawdust-covered flannel and jacket, the spark of recognition within the blood that had been smeared across the length of his cheekbone.

He had been Dean thousands of times before. Fight scenes were old tricks, but he was an old dog, proficient and weathered, so he easily encompasses everything that Dean is, was, and will be, and lets the cataclysm of the world sinks into his bones. There’s none of the casual banter they held while learning the choreography, there’s no pause for laughter or poorly executed jokes.

There is only Castiel, angry and fallen; there is only Sam, desperate and removed; and there is only Dean, broken, mongering for a fight he hopes he won’t win.

It’s different with the set around them, the blood on Cas’s coat and the fire that engulfs the blue in his eyes, and suddenly Jensen isn’t so sure he’s acting, he isn’t so sure he has to fake the regret on his face when Misha looks at him with nothing more than betrayal and disdain. And when Castiel’s fury is laid out before him while Misha fists Dean’s shirt and throws him against the wall, well, it hurts. Hurts him to the core.

There’s off-camera clicks to time their moves, and the whole thing is slow, rehearsed, and balanced, but for the moments when Misha ( _Castiel. Only Castiel, Jensen.)_ is two inches from his face, alight with a passion that burns through his skin and leaves Jensen stumbling backwards for traction, it feels just real enough. And through the absence of fear, the faint knowledge that it’s still _Misha_ in there, fabricating anger despite his stone-cold voice that grinds him to pieces like the crunch of gravel, Jensen’s adrenaline is misplaced.

Blood is rushing through his body as he’s gripped, thrown, manhandled, and _pressed_ against the wall, and for a singular moment, a beat of indiscriminate time, Misha’s eyes widen just enough that Jensen knows, he _knows,_ that Misha can feel his response to the close-proximity roughhousing straining against the denim of his jeans. A small sliver of black rings the blue, and Jensen can’t decide if he hates it or not before Castiel is raising a fist and delivering a convincing blow that whips past Dean’s face, a touch away from contact, and he turns his head in time, just like they practiced.

He doesn’t look up until they cut, and Misha is stepping back quickly, letting the makeup department jump in and add the blood to Dean’s newly-busted jaw, letting them sponge it against Castiel’s knuckles. Jensen tries not to focus on anything too heavily when the girls chastise Misha for curling and uncurling his fists, as though he _aches_ to move and his restraint is shoddy at best.

Misha stares, unabashed. Jensen wants to meet the gaze, wants to laugh it off and make fight-or-flight jokes and reference firefight erections which they all _know_ is a thing, but when he finally looks up and sees the unbridled shock on Misha’s face, engulfed gently by his curious reflection as he swallows thickly and just _stares_ , Jensen looks away. He looks away, and his heart hammers.

Jensen’s arousal surprised them. Misha’s answering arousal surprises them even more.

They split ways after filming, hiding in their respective trailers, and Misha tweets to Shatner about ozone layers and Jensen takes a shower hot enough to scald his prickling skin, and they continue on, like normal. Dinner is eaten and he watches HBO with Jared until he can’t justify keeping either of them up any longer, and he steers Jared out and rubs his eyes furiously and makes his way to his bed. Habitual. Comfortable familiarity.

This, he understands.

Of course, Misha knocks twenty minutes later, and he _knows_ it’s Misha just from the way the taps sound more like a reminder rather than questionable permission. Jensen might be mad if he hadn’t already realized that trying to sleep without his persistently recurring bedmate would entail a fight with his subconscious he wasn’t ready to tackle, especially sober.

Misha seems to be on the same plane of thought, and the very faint scent of alcohol wafts in with him as he steps through the doorway, promising a blame-free night and allowing Jensen that very rare sense that maybe Misha and him are finally on the same page.

“‘Lo,” Misha mumbles, looking weary and wide-eyed all at once, like he had woken up too quickly, too soon.

“Hey, Mish,” Jensen answers, and they stand there purposefully, staring at one another far past any reasonably allotted time, waiting on the other to give any indication of where their conversation should go.

It should feel awkward, but Jensen is used to Misha’s scrutinization, the never-ending torment of being analyzed, condensed, and totaled into one delirious, disconcerted package of _average._ Of vanilla. Of apologetic handicaps and dauntingly negative idiosyncrasies.

That’s clearly what Misha sees, because after a moment of quiet contemplation, he simply breathes, “Okay,” like the decision of a shaken, ungrounded man, and turns towards the bed without a single notion of furthering the conversation.

“Okay,” Jensen repeats, and follows. He doesn’t argue or question. Gift horse, and all that.

Misha still looks slightly stiff with the tension of underlying shock as he shucks out of his pants, and Jensen avoids meeting his eyes as best he can. Misha’s heat next to him in bed has repeatedly allowed him the best sleep he’s had in years, and as much as he tries to avoid letting that revelation sink in, he _wants_ Misha here. He wants that heat, that comfort, that silent agreement that sometimes, being alone is the worst thing for someone to endure. Opening his mouth with questions neither of them want to answer is a great way to drive off contentment, he knows that.

So instead, he slides into bed next to Misha like he’s not dying to ask where the punchline is, to ask when Misha will turn to him with a grin and snap his picture and walk away like months of planning was _totally_ worth the surprise on Jensen’s face. He turns away, swallowing the fear. He turns the other cheek before the first one was even slapped.

It’s exactly six minutes later when Misha shifts under the sheets next to him, and Jensen goes rigid when he feels the pads of Misha’s fingers sliding over the outline of his hip, cautious and questioning. He can _feel_ the pulse of blood through Misha’s hand alone, and realizes that adrenaline is still pumping fluidly through Misha’s veins, undeterred by the several hours it’s been since he was throwing Jensen around on set and shacking up with Castiel’s desperation.

His fingers don’t move past Jensen’s hip, lingering there in a grip that has just enough hold to make his intentions known, while still allowing Jensen to shift away from him, remove the contact, end something that’s still in the very beginning stages of infancy.

A heartbeat of stillness follows, Misha gauging Jensen’s reaction as Jensen’s brain tries to desperately catch up on what is clearly a very lucid dream gone entirely out of control. He can feel his heart in his throat, speeding up until it matches Misha’s in intensity, and _waits,_ waits for Misha to pull back or push forward, something, _anything_ that could give Jensen some semblance on how much of Misha to currently take at face value.

Misha moves again, and Jensen quickly lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when Misha presses his mouth against the back of his neck, nuzzling Jensen’s skin with his cheek in a way that’s entirely too intimate for a split-second pang of lust. It’s calculated, purposeful and premeditated, and Jensen can nearly feel the questions being kissed against his throat as Misha moves his lips in a scarce touch, timid but resolute.

A mantra of _This can’t be happening_ is on repeat in his head, clouding his thoughts, and the only relief he gets from his consuming disbelief is the gentle pressure of Misha’s mouth against his neck, moving slightly until he can press his cheek against Jensen and simply _breathe_ him in _._ Every movement shoots a spark of hope, wonder, and _need_ through his spine that slowly start to breach Jensen’s hovering incredulity, giving way to the heat of want low in his gut.

His hand finds it way to Misha’s, pressing against his knuckles in a silent confirmation of _yes,_ urging him to grip harder. _It’s okay. Please._

The reaction is instantaneous, and Misha’s hold tightens possessively while he presses impossibly closer, and the soft, dazed whisper of “Jen…” breathed against the stubble lining his jaw sends Jensen’s blood coursing south. He sounds so surprised, so _grateful_ , that Jensen bites his lip and wonders, again, how they always end up here. How Jensen is always at Misha’s whim, all while insisting that Jensen takes the wheel.

And he doesn’t know if it’s the breathless, wrecked way Misha says his name, if it’s the swell of arousal he can feel pressed against his lower back, or if it’s the way the world around them is screaming _finally, oh god, finally_ but something makes him turn over and grip the hair on the back of Misha’s head gently in his fist. He has a split-second view of Misha’s wide-eyed, mystified expression before he’s pulling him forward and initiating the first kiss they’ve ever had in privacy, while Misha scrambles to find the purchase on Jensen’s hips that he had lost in the sudden shift of dynamic.

In return, Jensen moves the hand not pressing against the tendons between Misha’s back to curl around his waist, tugging him closer until the only thing that separates them is the soft, well-worn cotton of shirts. It’s Jensen’s shirt, he knows Misha sleeps in them, and there’s a sudden, dawning comprehension that has him tilting his head and kissing deeper, desperate to show Misha just how much those minuscule things have affected him over the years. How totally decimated he’d be if Misha were to take them all back and just _end_ the delicate intimacy they grasp onto like grains of sand, slipping through their fingers the more they try to study it .

And surprisingly, for all of Misha’s brazen flirtation, he’s tripping over himself at Jensen’s assertion, choking back a surprised gasp that quickly turns into a moan he fruitlessly tries to swallow as Jensen tightens his hold on his hair and coaxes Misha’s tongue out of whatever shell-shocked abyss he’s fallen into. He hooks his heel over the back of Jensen’s calf, and Jensen can feel the shaking plead in his body, the soft keen and sigh that threatens to unravel him. He submits, and lets Misha slot their legs between one another, finally bringing his hand up to cup Jensen’s face like it’s a tender, precious thing.

Questions are burning in his lungs, and Jensen’s already dreading that Misha’s going to be able to taste all the things he’s afraid to say, hidden in the cognizance of his own teetering self-control. He’s too worried that Misha will pull away, _stop,_ turn it into fun, silly thing that will leave Jensen aching in ways that would never be satisfied, a thirst he would never quench, a silent promise that would remain unfulfilled.

But then Misha closes that tiny fraction of distance between thigh and groin, and Jensen can hear the surprise in his own strangled moan because he’s never, _ever_ felt something like this against him, building a friction that he can’t help but arch into. The novelty is intoxicating, and Misha’s bruising words into his lips, forming Jensen’s name in his own disbelief and pulling away to bury those murmurs into the dip of his collarbone. He thrusts lightly, almost serenely, like he mirrors Jensen’s aberration and hasn’t the faintest idea of what to do.

“Jensen, _ah_ ....” Misha shelters his face deeper into Jensen’s collar, keeping one hand pressed absently against the side of Jensen’s face, as though he might fade away underneath him. The other snakes around Jensen’s hip and kneads into his ass, urging Jensen to meet him just a little harder, a little faster. Jensen involuntarily bucks into him and wraps his arms around every part of Misha he can press against, and it’s too close, too personal, and he shakes the thought of what that’ll mean in the morning and breaths Misha in, a debilitating combination of greenery and fire. He can detect his own cologne, still clinging faintly to the shirt Misha obviously hasn’t washed yet, and his possessive instincts are screaming _mine mine mine_ from every nerve ending and neuron he has, begging him to lay claim.  

“Mish,” he mumbles, and he sounds pitiful, desperate and needy, but Misha pulls away just far enough to meet his eyes. His pupils are lust-blown, and he looks entirely fucked with his hair in disarray and his eyes half-hooded and dazed. Jensen’s confidence blossoms at the sight of Misha, picture-perfect _fucking_ Misha, completely lost in the throes of Jensen’s shallow thrusts, pushing him slowly to a heightened edge that Jensen wants -- _needs_ \-- to send him barreling over.

He reaches down and stretches the elastic of his shorts just enough to free himself, and with only the slightest of hesitation, does the same for Misha, drowning in the relieved whine Misha makes when his skin meets Jensen’s for the first time, heavy and hot and stiff. He ruts again, experimentally, and sees fucking stars behind his eyes. He’s so lost in the feeling, the absolute bliss of Misha’s length against him, that he almost misses the quiet moan that tears past Misha’s lips. Desperate to claim it, he pulls their lips together again, trying to coax more of those impulsive sounds so he can catalog them away, certain they’re the most beautiful things he’ll ever hear.

Misha ruts into him harder, heavy gasps filling the space between them when he pulls his mouth away, greedy for air. With a tentative look at Jensen, he bites his lip, moves the sheet just enough, and lowers his eyes to where they’re pressed together, expression shot with fervid _want_ while he utters a soft groan at the sight that greets him _._ Jensen swears it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen, and he shuts his eyes closed before it utterly breaks him and takes his turn to bury himself in Misha’s neck, biting his own lip to keep in the sounds that are threatening to slip out of him with each wet slide of his dick against Misha’s.

“Fuck...” There’s an itch in the back of his mind, that hovering uncertainty that he’s still not entirely aware of what’s happening, what the repercussions could mean, but then Misha is looking up at him, cheeks flushed and something in his eyes that Jensen is resolutely not putting a name to, and his festering doubt eases enough that a wild hope surges forward. “You want this, Mish?”

Misha moves like he’d been expecting the question, running his hands up and across the expanse of Jensen’s clothed chest, thumbs circling his shoulders as he leans in and kisses too many secrets against Jensen’s skin. His words are soft, almost worshiping, and he shifts to better align himself with Jensen’s heat, whispering “Want this,” and “Want you, Jen,” and other devotions that make Jensen’s breath hitch as he presses back, feels himself growing impossibly harder at the adoration Misha caresses expertly into his skin like he’d been doing it for years.

It almost rattles him, shakes him to his core, and he can feel the tenderness in the pit of his stomach, begging it to be something, pleading for it to be all that he feels it is. He pulls Misha into him, desperate to share what little breath he has left, wanting to be kissed until he’s crumbling and let Misha rebuild him, let Misha recreate him into all the perfect things Misha deserves. All of those things that Jensen wants to be.

They curl into each other again, breaking their kiss to breathe mirroring exhales and words into the heavy air around them, lost in sensation and hurtling towards a conclusion that Jensen’s too terrified will signal the end of all things. He swallows his fears and takes them both in his hand, feeling Misha dig his fingernails into his back in surprise as he keens softly, overwhelmed.

He wants to unravel Misha. Wants to see him stripped, bare-bones, until Jensen can know him at his weakest and most vulnerable, know him when there is no mask, no one-liners and shifted smiles, only the blank canvas Misha was born into. He’d be less terrifying there, less chaotic.

But when Misha is grasping at his arms, the pads of his fingers digging bruises as he thrusts needily into Jensen’s grip, strangled catches of his name on Misha’s lips, Jensen realizes his mistake. Unburdened, all of Misha is illuminated, and Jensen knows he’ll never see Misha more beautiful then when he’s meeting Jensen’s eyes, spilling himself over Jensen’s hand and clinging to him desperately, like there’s no one else he’d trust to catch him when he falls. It lights Jensen up like a live wire, and what little self-control he has left is gone as he watches Misha, bottom lip pulled between his teeth, riding out his orgasm with flushed cheeks and a starry, heated satisfaction in his eyes, like he’d been wanting it just as long as Jensen has.

He falls soon after, a complete white-out that encompasses the fervor and gratification of years of wondering, of forgotten dreams that led to finalized, perfect bliss. He’s shaking in Misha’s arms, trying desperately to fold the moment into his memories, to remember how it feels to be completely and totally sated, and -- god help him -- _loved._

They fall asleep wound tight, the drying mess between them forgotten as Jensen clings to the faint hope that maybe, it’ll all be okay. Maybe it’s a dream, and when he wakes, he’ll be the one drooling on his pillows and Misha will bring him coffee with that wonderful smile, like Jensen made the sun rise just for him. And Jensen, as always, will tuck his illusions away and focus on what’s real, on all of the things he can accept without question, and continue trying to figure out where Misha belongs in the world around him.

Misha is breathing softly against him, and Jensen’s heart clenches, making his eyes sting and water, because he can’t accept it anymore. He _wants_ so much more, and he’s tired of the cloudy yearnings and analyzing touches. He’s tired of not knowing, of not understanding. The only thing he knows is that Misha, beautiful fucking _Misha,_ loves that Jensen makes the sun rise every morning, but Jensen can’t help but feel like he’s the dog bringing in the newspaper -- loved like a pet, unequal, and substantially sub-par.

So he clings just a little bit tighter, kisses Misha’s forehead softly, tender, and he almost swears he hears Misha mumble three catastrophic words into his chest.

But then, Jensen has always been good at hearing what he wants to hear, seeing what he prays is real, and he knows all about endorphins and meaningless, post-coitus enraptures. But he says them back anyway, because nothing has ever felt as right as loving Misha does, and he just wants to ease the tension of those tightly-drawn strings in his chest, even if it means whispering confessions in the dark and praying Misha will still want that sunrise in the morning.

 

///

 

When he wakes, Misha is still there, and Jensen can’t decide how he wants to handle the churning mixture of absolute, abstract terror, and stark relief. It’s squirming around in his gut and the only thing he can think to do is to peel himself away from Misha’s inviting warmth and _get to Jared._

He changes quickly, too worried that Misha will wake up mid-dress and wonder if he’s being run out on that he forgoes the shower and quickly wipes any lingering residue off with a dampened towel. He’ll grimace about it later. A quick rummage through Misha’s pants pockets produces a cracked phone -- because Misha is absolutely careless with expensive things -- and he turns it on silent before leaving it next to the sleeping body still curled into his blankets.

He moves away, and stops, taking in the sight before him, the picture he hadn’t realized he’d longed to see, the reality he hadn’t dared to even give name to. And before he can help himself, he’s taking out his phone and snapping a quick, quiet photo, capturing the slant of muscles, the disarray of hair, the sheet pulled away to reveal the tan expanse of Misha’s back. Jensen gazes at it, the soft curves of his phone digging into his hand, and he knows that what it is would be obvious to anyone that sees it: The morning after photo. The trophy photo. The sentimental understatement of the fucking year.

He’s already hauled ass out of the trailer before he braves the text to Misha, a quick _Jared needed me, said it was important. I’ll be back,_ which is just ten layers of bullshit to cover up Jensen’s crippling fear of confrontation. He’s fully aware that he’s running away, and he knows that Misha will only read it as the conclusion it is, because if Jensen is anything, it’s fucking predictable, and Misha can open his pages and read him at his whim and fancy.

But Jensen is a singular thinker -- long term singular, granted -- but singular all the same, and right now, his main concern is waking up his doe-eyed wonder twin and begging him to save his ass, something Jared has proved hilariously proficient at doing.

It’s early, and filming has been postponed until tomorrow while the producers scope out a new location, leaving the lot empty of it’s usual early-morning bustle. What he should be thankful for has him on edge, nervous, and his grip tightens around the phone in his jacket pocket, worried that maybe he accidentally uploaded the photo to Twitter, and people are going to come pouring out of trailers and corners and begging to know details like a traitorous tidal wave composed of all of Jensen’s fuckups. His pace quickens. He should have stayed in the trailer.  He shouldn’t have left one security for another, fears be damned.

Jared looks appropriately frazzled when he answers the door, and has to blink several times before he’s able to get Jensen into focus. “Jensen? What’s up, man? You alright?”

“You gonna leave me standing in the cold or what?” Jensen chides, motioning around him as if a blizzard were on the doorstep. “Come on, let me in.”

Jared mumbles something about ‘days off’ and ‘late nights,’ but allows Jensen to push past him regardless. He shuts the door as calmly and quietly as he can, for no one but Jensen, who feels relief wash over him at the calm familiarity of Jared’s trailer. The tragic mess of clothes and belongings that just scrape by being livable is his second home, and it isn’t the first time he’s come running here to avoid confrontation. He sits down carefully on the beckoning sofa, trying to figure out exactly what he’s going to say while his fingers tap a gentle rhythm against what has quickly become his dearest possession.

Jared gives him the minute to think it over, busying himself with making the upscale, holier-than-thou imported coffee that Jensen always feels a little guilty drinking. Jared is the indulger, but Jensen’s always happy to oblige his expensive tastes if it means he doesn’t have to shell out the cash for it.

“So, you wanna tell me why you ran over here like the devil was chasing you?”

Jensen scoffs, but the smile is there. It’s an unintentionally funny joke, all things considered.

Jared pours two mugs, passing one to Jensen before settling on the couch opposite. His hair is still sticking up from sleep, and his pajama pants are worn and frayed, but he’s wearing both as easily and confidently as if he’d slipped into a suit, and Jensen can feel that lingering admiration crawling up his spine. Jared and Misha can radiate certainty at seven in the morning, while Jensen shifts awkwardly into the cushions and tries to remember how to speak. He wonders how they put up with him; perhaps they’re better suited for each other’s friendships, rather than trailing Jensen along beside them like the downtrodden little brother.

Jared and Misha, they’d be a hell of a pair without him.

The jarring thought must transcend onto the physical plane, because suddenly Jared is frowning at him like he’d done something wrong, like he’d broken something he couldn’t fix, and Jensen realizes too late that his face is set with a scowl born of an unfounded jealousy.

He shakes it off and takes a drink.

“Jensen?”

He meets Jared’s eyes, but his mouth feels like cotton, and trying to put all he feels and tastes and _needs_ into words is a hurdle he’s not ready to jump through. So instead, he decides to relinquish the absolute connection he has to the previous night, the one physical shred of evidence that proves, above all things, that he can be happy.

Fuck, he could be so goddamn happy, couldn’t he? He could. He _swears_ he could.

Jared takes the phone with a curious expression, holding it tenderly to mirror Jensen’s odd sort of reverence for it, and he has the decency to only raise his eyebrows a fraction when his sight flicks across the screen. He stares for a moment -- too long of a moment, and Jensen has the wild urge to snatch the phone back -- before letting out a long, slow exhale.

“So, that happened, then?”

Jensen takes the phone back on autopilot, like it’s the only movement he’s ever been programmed with, and relief shivers across his exposed skin. His grip feels relentless, his stomach churns sour, and he knows he’ll never be able to share that photo with anyone other than Jared, regardless of how things turn out. He stuffs it back into his pocket, fingers curling protectively. “Yeah. Last night.”

Jared smiles, like the perverted leech that he is. “So, did you…”

He makes a strange motion with his hand, nearly spilling his untouched coffee, but Jensen can read him without looking and shakes his head. “No, no, just…” He cuts off, unsure how to finish, and gives Jared a meaningful look while smooshing two of his fingers together.

“Oh!” Jared laughs. “Ba-doink. Got it.”

Jensen smirks, because he can’t keep a straight face when Jared mixes fourth-grade terminology with his vast amounts of sexual perversion, and he has to convince himself that it’s okay to smile. It’s okay to be happy with what happened, happy _afterwards_ , regardless of what the sinking feeling in his gut tells him.

“Does that mean you guys are…?”

Jared looks at him, leaving his sentence intentionally incomplete, giving Jensen permission to plug in whatever words feel right. It’s clear that Jared already believes them to be _something,_ and he’s only waiting to be clued in on Jensen’s phrase of choice.

Jensen Ackles: bearer of disappointment.

“We’re not anything. It just happened. And I left before we could talk about it,” he adds guiltily, choosing to burn his tongue on coffee rather than deal with the questioning gaze he _knows_ Jared is trying to channel all of his answers from.

Why did he come here again?

“You’re over-analyzing still,” Jared comments mildly, but Jensen isn’t fooled. Jared is rarely angry, but whenever the world gets quiet and the air is sucked from the hollow space between Jensen and the baseboards, he knows he’s due for a proverbial backhand.

“That’s real easy for you to say, but--”

“And you just left him there?” Jared interrupts, looking as stern and disapproving as a man in pajama pants could possibly muster. “You ran off like a booty call? You did a walk of shame from your own trailer?”

“I left him a note,” Jensen tries weakly, but he knows he’s already lost this argument, even if it’s just barely begun. He tightens his grip on his coffee mug, waiting.

“What’s your deal with Misha then? The guy wants to be with you; I know it, everyone knows it, and he’s basically been plastering the fucking walls with posters asking you to prom for the past year. What’s the issue, Jensen?”

Jensen hesitates. Shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Opens his mouth and forms the beginnings of “I don’t--”

“--And _don’t_ you tell me that you don’t love him, because I’ve never seen someone as gone as you are. You float half a foot in the air whenever he’s in the room. So the truth, Jensen, nothing but.”

An image of Misha flashes across his sight, sitting cross-legged on the floor at a party, some ridiculous company shindig filled with properly suited producers and formal gowned executives. And Misha, poised neatly on the hardwood floor, dishes out the ambers of scotch to a throng of clandestine women, who share secretive looks and smile behind their hands when their fingers brush Misha’s outstretched offerings. He’s recounting them with less-than-thrilling backpacking tales, somehow turning the embarrassment of getting lost for three days in the highlands of Scotland into an effective aphrodisiac.

Girls are on their knees around him, all pretense of refined mannerisms forgotten, swallowing his words like their blood pulses for it, high heels jutting out awkwardly behind them. The only person who looks remotely at ease with the scenario is Misha, his slacks riding up to reveal those godawful knitted socks, with a bottle nestled in his lap, entirely unconcerned about the grating looks he’s getting from the men who clearly think themselves several classes above the vagabond sitting neatly across the oak floor.

Because that was Misha. He enraptures the unsuspecting, those who underestimate him, and grips them with a complete and resolute thrall. He hardly tries, granted, and he tries even less to nip that bud of blossoming idolization, refuses to diminish his allure, and what was a sweet, heartwarming conversation to Misha becomes profound for the person he leaves behind. Misha walks away with a smile on his face, and the other party is left wondering what it would be like to have him, to really _have_ him.

Jensen is no different. He is the girl on the floor. He is the guy in the elevator. He is the waitress, the fan, the taxi driver. He is just another enchanted party, wanting to _know_ Misha. Wanting so much more than what he gets.

“I don’t believe it, okay? I don’t believe it.”

Jared falls silent, and yeah, Jensen said that out loud. He hadn’t meant to, but a chorus of _you don’t understand!_ is dancing around his skull, shallowing out Jared’s words of where blame lies and _devotion_ and blindingly prominent affirmations that Jensen had always chalked up to Misha’s strange, personal habits. His gravitational pull for lovers. He can hear the words _everyone knows it_ buzzing through him, but he’s not ready for that. He’s not ready to realize that it had always only been _him._

Misha doesn’t pretend to care what people think of him. He lives unapologetically, zigzagging across upturned stones and slipping on juts in the pavement, but he never stops moving forward at a calm and steady pace, like he’s never been afraid of anything. But he always slows for Jensen. Always pauses, a sideways glance to make sure he’s not overstepping, a steady, reassuring hand that asks without words if it’s okay, if _Jensen_ is okay. And Jensen is caught up, frantically stumbling behind Misha in his effort to keep close, to figure out where the fuck they’re going, where Misha is leading them.

“Jen? What do you mean?”

Jensen takes a breath, steadying his thoughts so he could focus on how to relay all of his worries and his doubts without sounding like an afterschool special, without undermining how important it feels to be on the receiving end of such gracious and alarming favoritism.

“It’s not like Misha to be so… hesitant. It’s like he’s waiting in limbo until the perfect moment to surprise me with some colossal joke.”

And god, he realizes it then. His anxiety, his nerves, his crippling disbelief and refusal for closure… it’s all fear. He can’t enjoy the build-up because he’s too focused on the future, the inevitable crash. The moment Misha catches sight of something lovelier, something better and perfect in all the ways Jensen’s not, he’ll be gone, trailing a line of Jensen’s damage behind him like the puppeteer dropping his strings. Jensen will be those girls on the floor, the guy in the elevator, looking to catch up, to grasp onto what he almost had. But Misha wouldn’t look back. Misha never looks back.

Because Misha? Beautiful perfect fucking _Misha_ could never love Jensen longer than it would take to figure him out.

Jared quirks a eyebrow, his fingers stilling their movement on the rim of his mug. “You think _Misha’s_ being hesitant? You’re not exactly the guru of wearing it on your sleeve, you know. Maybe he’s just as unspun as you are. Have you even told him--”

“Not possible,” Jensen shakes his head, stilling Jared’s words and refusing to heed his agitation. “Where Misha’s concerned, I’m just along for the ride. He’ll get bored of whatever fucking game he’s playing, dish out the twist ending, and it’ll be back to pleasantries.”

It comes out more bitter than he intended, but there’s that familiar ache in his chest that feels a lot like false hope, and lot like lost love, and if he starts crying, he’s really thinking about catching a plane back to Austin to spend the next two weeks hiding out with his dog and trying to man the fuck up.

But Jared is smiling at him. A whimsical, carefree smile; that same fucking smile that everyone gets when Misha nuzzles into Jensen’s shoulder to bother him about trying the Thai place out in town. The same smile that everyone gets when Jensen stays a little longer than he’s needed so he can watch Misha’s scenes. The same smile Misha gets when Jensen thanks him for coffee. Like they all know a little secret.

Jared’s voice is soft, “We’ve always known Misha is… well, he’s strange. And his attentions are spread, quite literally, halfway across the fucking globe. And yeah, you could say we’re all a little caught up in how he lives his life, but you’re the only one focusing on all the wrong parts.”

Jensen waits. He knows what Jared’s about to say, and his heart is in his throat and he can’t. Fucking. Breath.

“We’re all along for the ride where Misha’s concerned, Jen. The only difference is, he wants you in the passenger seat. He has for a long time.”

 

///

 

He leaves after that, his body taut and rigid like all those strings he’s composed of are being pulled in separate directions, dedicated to sending him spiraling down all avenues until he’s unraveled and limp, drained of feeling anything at all.

He’s not sure if he wants a drink or if he _needs_ a drink, but the sun is still peeking on the cusp of the horizon, and he’s not exactly a lush, so he finds himself trudging soberly back to his trailer, entirely unnerved. His thoughts are reverberating in his head at a constant, alarming pace, and _fuck,_ if this is what it feels like to be Misha, he understands the flurry of activity, even if he doesn’t exactly envy it.

The skin across his abdomen crinkles slightly when he moves, and the reminder of what he didn’t entirely clean off sends everything in his gut bottoming out, flashes of the previous night barraging him as he loses his footing and stumbles slightly, too caught up in the replay of Misha entirely _gone,_ head lolling and cheeks flushed as he breathes Jensen’s name like a sacrilegious prayer.

Suddenly he’s 16 again, and he just wants _more._

His door creaks open with a prolonged whine that he swears never happens during the bustle of the day, and it’s a nagging reminder that the world is lining itself up for a showdown. Jensen doesn’t get to walk away, even if his nerves are currently shredded across the blacktop.

Misha is there, sitting neatly in the chair Jensen has been careful not to label as Misha’s designate, wearing a shirt fresh from Jensen’s closet, and he doesn’t need the metaphors or appropriately timed parallels to realize how fucking _stupid_ they’ve been.

“I ran off,” he blurts out, and hears the door shut behind him with a finalized click that seals him in, and he’s _definitely_ that poor cow in the raptor cage. “Sorry, Misha--”

“To Jared’s?” Misha asks, fully intent on interrupting because both of them are perfectly aware that Jensen had no idea where he was spinning that particular thread of conversation. Normally, he’d be irritated, but he’s starting to realize that Misha’s impassive dissuade on Jensen’s behalf isn’t as much disinterest as it rescuing Jensen from all the things he’d rather not say. All those things he’d rather keep buried, but feels compelled to say.

It stings a little bit to think of all the years Misha had been _trying_ to help, and Jensen read it only as arrogant streamlining.

“Yeah, woke him up. He wasn’t thrilled,” Jensen supplies nervously, and Misha’s eyes glance to him momentarily, like he wants to linger on the subject, and Jensen takes the bait. “Though, I suppose, neither were you.”

Misha rubs his eyes, and Jensen’s lurching at the switch. Suddenly Misha is the mother, awake until 2AM to find Jensen stumbling back into the house after a pathetic night of self-revelation and petty personal drama. And he seems so tired, the same weariness Jensen is affronted with when Misha is nothing but mysteries and appealing stretches of sinewy muscle.

Jensen can clearly remember the effort that comes with understanding Misha, of watching those lights flicker across his face at bars and pubs and hotel rooms, wanting to just _know_ , and he’s aware of when he’s being mirrored, however unintentionally. It’s unsettling, because Misha has never had to work hard at understanding people, and Jensen can’t fathom why he’d be willing to start.

“What am I doing wrong, Jensen?”

He’s heard these words before. Years ago, hanging heavy in the air between his parents while he chowed down on popcorn and watched cartoons too loudly in his room. It seemed so serious then, like imminent divorce and the collapse of all he loved and cherished, but he’d fall asleep to whispered anger and accusations only to wake up to the beaming but tired face of his mother early the next morning. Fresh flowers would be in the kitchen by noon, and supper was always steak.

He’d never thought he’d be having this conversation with fucking _Misha,_ of all people.

“Why do you think you’re doing something wrong?”

Misha shifts in his seat, like for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to do with his body. Jensen feels several steps behind, certain that he’s missed a crucial junction in their relationship, and now he’s never quite going to catch up.

“I don’t care if you want to run out. Run anywhere you want, but try to refrain from lying about it.”

He holds out his phone, wiggling a little for emphasis, and Jensen feels that familiar swoop of guilt in his stomach. Misha isn’t angry; frustration and irritation are rolling off him in waves, but it’s teetering dangerously close to apathy, something that’s more than willing to sucker-punch Jensen right in the gut.

Because that’s how it begins.

“Can’t make promises,” he shrugs, because if he agrees with Dean Winchester on anything, it’s that dealing in promises and false hopes only worsen the pain when the lies come to fruition later on.

Misha stands, posturing in a way that sets Jensen on edge, a knowing glint that borders on cruelty, and Jensen is almost thankful for what comes out, realizing that Misha could have taken him down so many more pegs than what he does.

“I’ve never met someone as insecure as you.”

“Don’t worry, you will,” he quips back, and the immediate hurt in Misha’s eyes is enough to stave of the momentary pride of a snappy remark.  

A pause, and then--

“Alright,” Misha concludes, a fight sitting heavy and dormant like a warning in the back of his throat, “Ignoring your thinly veiled, yet very astute insult, I have to ask you -- how much of a fucking asshole do you think I am?”

It wasn’t the first time Jensen’s accused Misha of being a slut, but it’s the first time it’s been born from the fear of an unfounded relationship. The first time it’s been laced with jealousy and disdain. Cruel teasing is a steady constant with them, an affirmation of friendship and security, and Misha is more than willing to call Jensen out on tainting holy ground.

Jensen readies himself to shrink back from the hurt in Misha’s expression, the calm, slightly miffed curl of sincerity that gives an edge to his voice. But instead, they’re level, and for once Misha isn’t an intimidating, imposing threat whose sole personal goal is to make Jensen’s life as baffling and difficult as possible. For once, Misha stands with him, confused in all the ways that Jensen knows, wanting the same answers that Jensen hasn’t had the guts to consider asking for.

For once, he finally remembers that he’s _not_ afraid of Misha. He’s afraid of Misha’s rejection.

And Jensen’s fear, that same horrible, debilitating dread is now swimming in Misha’s eyes, breaking through that closed-fisted grip Misha has on his reality, and it hits Jensen hard to know that Misha has been waiting for him to run out that door just as often as Jensen has considered doing it.

“Misha.”

“Jensen, I love you.”  

The words should shock, with Misha stating them like the weather, but they don’t. Contrary, Jensen feels the bowstrings of his muscles loosen, and his body relaxes into something that feels more like home than words could ever give credit to. Like the damn had burst, but the river is calm and quenched and he was panicking and running from the shore for nothing. He’s been waiting for it and bolting from it simultaneously, too caught up in kicking his own ass into the proverbial next week that he hadn’t realized running from all of those moments hadn’t kept them from existing.

Because honestly, Jensen knows he’s in love. He’s known it since Misha’s fingertips first brushed the bend of his shoulder and his nerves shipped those electric currents across his skin like wildfire; he’s known since he looked up on set to find Misha smiling into his script, having just turned away; he’s known since Misha slipped and fell into the kiddie pool at Jared’s house, and Jensen had laughed until his eyes stung. He’s known, just as everyone has known.  

“Is that okay?”

Misha is staring at him, blue eyes and questions and every little nuance is brought to light, shining like a beacon that stirs up all of Jensen’s inadequacies and draws them in like moths to a flame, illuminating them, burning them out of existence.  

But still--

“I’m not going to be enough, Misha.”

He’s worried he’s going to have to explain, like he did with Jared. Worried that Misha will cock his head like his overwhelming understanding of the world won’t have given him the necessary experience to deal with Jensen’s apprehension. And he opens his mouth, ready to list all of the neat, orderly reasons why he will _never_ be able to make Misha happy in the long run, but Misha cuts him off.

“I know what you’re trying to tell me, and I know what you’re scared of.”

Jensen waits, his eyes cast downwards, and listens.

“You’ve convinced yourself that I don’t care as much as you want me to. That you’re just a project for the ‘ _ever-evolving Misha Collins_ ,’ right?” Jensen looks up momentarily to hear the agitation in Misha’s voice at the nickname, and he wonders how long he would have gone without realizing that even Misha gets weary of his own individuality. That the people he loves can take his persona for aloofness, if he’s not careful. Jensen doesn’t give an answer, and Misha doesn’t wait for one. Neither of them need it. Misha’s voice loses its air of contempt and goes soft.

“Jensen…. Every day, from the moment I wake, I think of you. I wait to see you. I hope that today won’t be the day where you’ll start getting your own fucking coffee, and you won’t have a reason to smile when you see me.” He pauses, searching for words in a way Jensen has never seen, like he’s kept them closely guarded. “I need that. That week when I was worried you were upset, I didn’t know what to do, and I was so thrown off. You’re the only normalcy in my life, and I can’t--”

He stops, and for the first time since Jensen’s known him, Misha is lost, composed of nothing but frustration and despair and _urgency_ when he cards his hand through his hair to look meaningfully at Jensen, pleading for him to help work through this.

Jensen shakes his head. “I believe that, Mish, but it’s not going to last--”

“The past four years were nothing, then?”

Jensen pauses, because even though Misha has made it astoundingly clear that he deals in proud and indisputable truths, it catches him by surprise. Jensen has been tactically avoiding his recognizable affection for Misha for a long time, but idle seconds to Misha are _minutes_ of wasted effort, and to know he’s been loving Jensen from afar despite what every bone in his body must have been _screaming_ at him to do, well, he doesn’t know what to say.

A lot of things start making sense.

When he doesn’t respond, Misha moves closer, hesitant but dedicated.

“You’re right, okay? -- I’m flighty. And what I’m interested in today I’ll forget tomorrow. But you, Jensen, you’ve been my only constant since I was cast. I was so scared at first, and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so I worked at ignoring you, at replacing you, everything I could think of that would distract me from how hard I had fallen. But it... I can’t shake you. I can’t get over you. And frankly, I’m tired of trying.”

Jensen is shaking, and Misha’s hands grip his arms softly to steady him.

“The only thing I want to do now is convince you of that. I want to try. Is that… is that okay?”

And suddenly, all of the things that were _not_ okay become something else, memories to be filed away, moments of fretting overpowered by the sincerity of a gentle smile. _Acceptance_ is ringing through him and for once he’s not worried about all the things Misha isn’t saying, he’s not worried about how to fathom the resolve to meet Misha halfway.

Misha is cracked where Jensen is broken, but they’ve always held together better that way. Imperfections are melted together, securing one another like rungs on a ladder, reaching them to heights they’d never achieve alone. Misha is a cranky, selfless, ambitious, smart-mouthed jerk with a heart too big to handle, and Jensen _loves_ it. He loves every single piece, the good and the bad, and it tastes like all the silent promises they’ve resolved to keep when he reaches over and pulls Misha into a kiss that says more than Jensen ever could.

He can finally see that fucking forest, and it’s so goddamn _beautiful._

“Yeah man, it’s okay.”

 

 


End file.
